


The Dragon and the Halla

by Ursaborea



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut, and other things, random angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:44:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4563342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ursaborea/pseuds/Ursaborea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A random collection of short works, almost journal style, that I felt compelled to do in the wake of certain story arcs that happened in my game.  These are purely self indulgent, but I hope that people will enjoy it and perhaps find some sense of recognition of their own games within.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_Skyhold_ **

 

It was...unexpected?  Yes, that could be the right word for it.  

Lavellan was, after all the Inquisitor, not that Dorian put much stock by titles anymore, but still.  Lavellan might not have had a clue how he got The Mark, or even the faintest idea of how it worked, the bottom line was that he had it.  Herald of Andraste, and all that.  One might be excused for thinking perhaps he'd be a bit too busy to even have a corner of his brain to spare for the baser pleasures in life.

But apparently he did.  Oh yes.

He was an elf too, no less.  It felt far too crass to broach the topic in any direct sense, but Dorian had worked up enough nerve to clumsily (by his standards at least) inquire as to his Dalish heritage.  It was, no pun intended, written all over his face, after all.  And in perhaps Lavellan's most uncomfortable moment, he'd asked Dorian about slavery in Tevinter.  Mercifully it had been a brief conversation, he hadn't dug too deep and nothing in his tone felt necessarily accusatory... but still.  

Surely, Dorian had known enough free elves in his time spent in the South, but none of those had been more than passing acquaintances.  Never close enough for that particular topic to arise.

It was stunning, therefore, to realize that all those flippant conversations he'd shared with this elf-herald-inquisitor held so many gentle, little attempts at flirtation.   _HE_ was the flirt, after all.  He'd flirt with Andraste herself if the notion took him, and have Her Most High Holiness eating out of the palm of his hand.  Lavellan, on the other hand, was not quite such a peacock.  

The second Dorian was sure he wasn't imagining things, however, felt like a delicious little secret, wrapping itself sun-heated and tight around something in his chest, serpentine and strong.  It was just the manner of illicit he enjoyed, even with that horrible, nagging sense of  _responsibility_  and  _better judgement_  trying to toss a wet blanket upon the fire before it could even catch from tinder.

Ah, Maker, the way Lavellan kissed, though.

Reaching for your hands to put them where he'd like them, that canny little uptilt of one corner of his mouth each bloody time you lent in.  Pleased as the cat that got the cream.  It burned, made you want to catch his chin and push your thumb between his lips, plush the fullness of it out against the pressure of your finger and pull it down just to see what he'd do.  Would he lick at it?  Let his mouth drop open, wide and willing?  Would he wrench his face away and turn some delightful shade of burning red under those pretty tattoos?

Lavellan had other sweet habits, too.  One in particular Dorian found endearing beyond all others.  Each time Lavellan came begging for a 'private audience' with that sincere attempt at a casual tone, every time Dorian would invaded his space of his own accord, it made no difference; somewhere in the middle of each encounter Lavellan found a way to lean in, press himself hips to sternum against the mage and rise to his toes.

It ought to have been ridiculous.  It was anything but.  And after the first time, Dorian had learned to wait for it, it had become a new, sweet little pleasure to watch him do this, and the very first time Dorian had allowed himself enough wherewithal to do so, Lavellan's expression had been enough to sting deliciously somewhere deep within.  It felt wondrously like the very first time he'd ever stolen a kiss.  And it felt that way each time.  Hips shoved against hips, it was a slow, small drag upward.  The pressure felt exquisite, constriction in all the right places and slowly sinuous enough in its motion to set a flame to the powder keg of the idea that this, this was exactly what Lavellan would look like, feel like, with his lean, bare legs bent up and knees draped over your shoulders, heels digging into the backs of your ribs.  Each little fraction of an inch of that little upward, almost feline insinuation felt like the heavens.  The silver filigree buttons of his jerkin caught against the soft drape of fabric and fine leather strappings of Dorian's clothes each time, but it hardly seemed to matter.  

Ah, Lavellan's expression though; eyes shut, mouth just a fraction open and lower lip still wet from the attention of kisses.  Bowstring callused finger tips seeking out Dorian's one bare shoulder to ghost over skin.  Dorian could  practically see him pull in the hitch of a breath, watch the inner corners of his eyebrows turn up just the smallest amount, his fine-boned face exquisite in expression.  If Lavellan truly was Andraste's chosen then surely  _this_  was her legacy - this quiet  and utter surrender to ecstasy.   None of the endless politics, none of the bloodshed and infighting, templars, mages, wardens, circles, Divines, Empresses, none of it was as pure and perfect and more worthy a thing of worship than the way Lavellan looked after being kissed.

It was painful, and it was sublime.

It was delicious, then, when Dorian had had more than his fill of the little torments one day, and the moment Lavellan lifted himself on his toes and pressed close, the mage closed his grip tight upon hips and slid a thigh up between the elf's two lean thighs, nestling the press of muscle up against Lavellan's groin in a friction that earned immediate attention.  Dorian could feel the faltering, tightening grip upon his shoulders, and watched in amusement as the elf's eyes sprung open, the drop of his mouth following thereafter, as it seemed to struggle for words.  Dorian shut it again with a kiss, pulling Lavellan in along the incline of his thigh in a way that had the Inquisitor's whip-lean frame shuddering.

"You tease and tease, Inquisitor.  It's almost as if you don't know what you want." Dorian murmured, the grin in his tone dropping from each accented word.

It was no small joy to watch Lavellan choke on a sigh and drop his head against the outside of Dorian's shoulder as he ground down hard upon the leg between his.  Hips worked on their own, a play of push and slide that Dorian's hands hardly had to help along after that initial pull.  For a good while, it was more than enough to simply watch the elf  hold on to him and ride the friction of his thigh.  Eventually, though, Dorian had to fling fuel upon that fire (and sate his own growing curiosity), leaning just a fraction to catch the tender edge of one sharply pointed earlobe between teeth.  

He was rewarded with a noise that set the rookery above the library cawing and flapping about, voices raised in the library itself in a general melee of curiosity just under the cacophony of the birds.  One hand clapped itself over Lavellan's mouth as he made a mental note of _that_ particular novelty, and without hesitation, released the grip of teeth to run the tip of his tongue slow up along the sweet, pointed line of the elf's ear.  

Noise was muffled under his fingers but no less delightful, and the Inquisitor's face above his hand was a rictus of sheer ecstasy; fine brows bent upward under closed eyes, the bridge of his nose wrinked against the losing battle he was waging against self control.  The smile gracing Dorian's face felt fit to split, over ripe and sweet.  It took only a few more urging pulls until Lavellan was right on the edge, nearly slouched up against him, hips working far less rhythmically then they had been... and Dorian dropped his leg out from under the clench of thighs, rising as he uncovered the elf's mouth and stopped its immediate protest with a kiss deep and hard enough to steal breath.

The Maker himself probably smiled with less indulgent pride as he backed away from his creation than Dorian did as he stood up and graced fingertips against the line of the Inquisitor's throat.

"Ah...And here I thought we were just getting to the good part." He purred, side stepping the elf and leaving Lavellan to pitch forward and grab the edge of the desk Dorian had been perched upon as he reeled, head bent and breath a shiver caught deep in the back of his throat as the Tevinter wandered back to his studies with a pleased smirk no one could get him to answer for.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Skyhold** _

 

There had been so many little conversations between himself and the Inquisitor that Dorian had collected; small shards of a person intensely private yet undeniably public, someone struggling between the role that had been thrust upon them and their own image of self.  Those little snippets of reality had become treasures, and he was amassing a horde to rival a dragon's envy.  Dorian's favorites, however, seemed to always stem from that unfamiliar, alien world in which Lavellan had been raised.  His life among the Dalish, their customs, his kin, and his home.

"As much as pile of magnificent rubble atop a mountain as this was when you found it, this has become quite the stronghold.  You ought to be proud."  Dorian mentioned one night when they lent upon the ramparts together, watching the troops at their evening drills.  Lavellan had suggested they do something together and Dorian had glibly offered to critique the flanks and their horrific uniforms - much to the Inquisitor's amusement.

"Oh yes." Lavellan agreed, in that quiet, even tone of his that could cause the mothers of the Chantry to blush for all its innocent conviction.  "I am."

The Inquisitor hesitated a moment, however, with a brief glance to the Tevinter at his side before adding, "It still doesn't feel quite like home."

"Yes? And What does home feel like?"  Dorian asked, almost absently, watching the troops foul up a maneuver below them that sent half the flanks running smack into the other.  Cullen was shitting chickens and the scene was nothing short of delightful.

"Well not so freezing.  The cold is uncomfortable."  Lavellan explained, with a muffled chuckle at the chaos below.  "It sounds stupid, but I miss the rain."

"The rain?" Dorian echoed, again, absently, sparing the elf a disbelieving glance.

"Mmn.  Thunderstorms.  They don't happen this high, or so Solas tells me.  Just snow, and cold storms.  I miss the warm nights and the thunderstorms, the sound of rain on leaves and the lightening, turning the Dales into its own bright show, and thunder like the sound of the gods riding across the world.  This place, long before it was Skyhold, was called Tarasyl'an Te'las by my people.  The place where the sky is kept...or held back?  It feels strange to have such a home where the best part of the sky never happens."  He offered Dorian an embarrassed half smile,  "Silly I know."  And shoved off the rampart, headed away before the mage could respond, leaving Dorian watching his back thoughtfully.

"Not at all..." Dorian murmured at the retreating back already too far away to hear him.

 

The ancient wooden stairs up the tower off the Main Hall up toward his chambers groaned softly under each careful step.  It had been a long day, full of arguments and negotiation over the war table.  Hours eaten up by the hard minutiae of a leadership he hadn't asked for.  Lavellan pushed the door of his rooms open heavily, and shut the barrier of it between himself and the world below, leaning against it as one hand found and turned the key in the lock.

There was perhaps a breath or two between him shucking that invisible armor he was forced to wear throughout the day and the realization that he was, indeed, not alone.  All the balcony doors were wide open, but instead of the usual chill wind whipping in with its hissing, whispering, gossiping groans there was something warm and wet on the breeze that had tapestry lifting from its cold stone cuddle.

Out on the balcony Dorian stood, arms raised upward, a sickly green glow encasing each fist.  Lavellan pushed off his lean against the barricade of the door and wandered forward slowly.  He'd seen this before; that posture, back arched hard and arms aloft.  The strange glow of magic pulled from the fade and forced into a vortex, churning about the mage's upheld fists like small cyclones.  Above Dorian the skies were darkening, roiling with the heavy seethe of clouds never meant to nudge this close to the surface of the world.  As Lavellan watched, Dorian lowered his hands slowly, and the sickly green glow was replaced with a halo of crackling blue electricity that died off in little arches and long, thin veins of snapping electrical brilliance as Dorian turned toward him and walked off the balcony inside.

"...What...?"

"Ask, and ye shall receive, Amatus."  The mage replied, smiling.

Above, the sky resounded with a roll of thunder that set the very foundations, the deep mountain roots of Skyhold trembling.

 

Dorian had had lovers, yes.  But there were lovers, and then there was _Lavellan_.

The fires had burnt or blown out in the Inquisitor's chambers, the warm winds whipping through the open doors had seen to that, and the only illumination to be had was that of the erratic flashing crackle of lightening he'd called up, streaking the sky outside so close that at any moment it might strike the very stone of the stronghold and bring it down around them all.  Lavellan seemed unconscious of this possibility, far too lost in the fumblings of ecstasy between sheets.  For all his slight frame, there was nothing weak about the elf.  He was corded, lean muscle under fair skin, and in the dark, a force to behold.  

Lightening sundered the sky and backlit the inhuman glow of eyes behind the fall of incomparably soft hair.  That eerie tapetum lucidum shone brilliant in the gloom as thunder cascaded hard enough to shudder the bed.  It was breathtakingly incongruous; this sweetly savage creature that had tumbled Dorian into bed, and that careful Inquisitor he'd been toying with for so long.  

There was sex, there was love...and then there was this.

In the place where the sky was kept, the sky itself cracked open, licked at the immovable earth just under it's tongue, and somewhere inbetween them both a sound echoing that ecstatic fire itself cried back. 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

_**The Exalted Plains** _

 

Lavellan hadn't failed to miss it; the quiet noise of disgust just behind his left shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye Dorian turning away to hide an expression of disapproval.  

He knew better then to approach the Tevinter about it, however, let him broach it in his own time.  

So it was that Lavellan sat before the fire in camp later that night, keeping hands busy in hopes of stopping his mind, even for a little while.  A full forty smooth, straight arrow shafts lay beside him, the pile of wood shavings kicked into the edge of the fire before him.  The hided, hard leather he was just finishing carving into thin strips made wonderful sounds under his knife - almost loud enough to drown out the sound of pacing footsteps several yards behind him, but not quite.  He'd just finished the last surgically thin slice as the crunch of feet finally cut toward him and the familiar creak of all Dorian's leathers settled down nearby.  He spared the Tevinter a silent glance before turning all attention back upon his work, notching the bag of fine arrowheads he'd bought from the Dalish clan earlier that day before they'd taken their leave.

The fire crackled in the silence, filling the void along with the usual chorus of camp life.  Dorian reached for a stick and prodded the embers unhelpfully.

"You were too soft with her."  He finally said, quietly, laying the accusation at Lavellan's feet like a cat might do with a dead mouse.  _I know you're too stupid to feed yourself, so I'll do it for you._

Lavellan fitted the arrowhead into the shaft and began the careful, exacting process of securing it tight.

"Some people need being gentle with." He replied in the same even, quiet tone the Tevinter used, though he could feel the edge to his own voice, sheathed in the velvet.  He spared Dorian another look, brief for all the weight it carried.   _Some people had already been the grateful beneficiary many times over of his gentle touch._

He could hear Dorian let out a breath of exasperation.

"True... but she deserved to hear the truth.  It was blood magic, and the boy most likely either died a horrifying, painful end at worst, at best he was simply sacrifice, a vessel emptied to provide someone els-"

" _The truth,_ " Lavellan interrupted, volume hitched up just a notch, "was that the boy was brave.  That was truth enough."

"How could you possibly-"

"He was  _Dalish_." Lavellan responded, severely, so outside his usual self.  " _That_  is how I know."

This time when he lifted his head he stared down the mage long enough that the firelight had time to catch that reflective membrane behind his eyes, turning what was always a breathcatching green into something far more primal.  The kind of eyes you caught watching you out in the dark of the woods when the wolves howled.  Wisely, Dorian said nothing, and after a long moment those eyes dropped back to their work.  Lavellan finished the first arrow, threw it to the ground at his feet and began the second.

"You know... you have people to do that for you now?  The requisition officer would be delighted for the work."  Dorian offered, his voice back to that usual flippant humor Lavellan usually found so charming.

"It's not the same as the Dalish.  The officers don't bloody know how to do it right.  You saw how ten of them broke on contact today."

_Ah_.  Dorian's brows eased a bit as the puzzle pieces fell into place.

 "They got to you, did they?  You know, for what it's worth I think that Keeper was just drunk on his own meager power. If that was the whole of his clan, I've seen innkeepers with more power and influence then that sod."

Lavellan shook his head.  

"Keepers are Keepers.  It doesn't matter how large their clan is.  And it's not just him, Dorian.  It's everywhere.  It was in the Emerald Graves, where apparently according to our Scouts I don't know my own history.  It's in Hallamshiral where everything felt stolen, and Maker knows where it will be next!  Do you know what it's like to speak with so many people who, somewhere mid-conversation, suddenly seem to realize you're an elf?  Like they were bloody blind to it?"

"I'd rather think that's a good thing." Dorian replied with a thoughtful frown, watching the Inquisitor the same way one watches the long, lit fuse of a cannon. 

"What?!"

"They aren't blind to your Dalishness, Lavellan.  It's just, for the first time in a long time it's not the first thing they are noticing about an elf.  You are the Inquisitor, the Herald, so on and so forth, Your Worshipful Narrowbottom...  Or whatever honorific it is they've chosen.  They look at you and they don't see race.  They see hope.  Does it matter that they fail to notice that their hope comes with delightfully long ears and some fascinating facial tattoos?"

Lavellan's shoulders sagged a bit as he let the second finished arrow fall to his feet, the frame of him gone from dangerously livid-straight into the painful vulnerability such posturing had been hiding.  Dorian paused, then rose and settled closer beside him.

"It's not just humans seeing you as human, though is it?" He asked with helpful perception.

"Even Solas questioned how close I could be to my heritage, given how greatly I have apparently surprised him.  Do you know, I like to visit him sometimes, just to hear my name said the way it ought to be?"  Lavellan turned his head aside.  "To have a Keeper suggest somehow that perhaps I wasn't Dalish..."

"To be fair, Amatus, his 'suggestion' wasn't leveled at you, but at the Inquisition.  You are not the Inquisition, though you may be the beating heart of it.  It is larger then one Andraste-touched elf.  You take too much upon yourself."

Lavellan shook his head again, and in the orange flicker glow of the fire Dorian could see the crumpled fall of fine brows and the unhappiness writ along the lines of his profile.

"It wasn't the Inquisition that had to prove itself." Lavellan murmured. 

"Surely your own clan -"

"Oh yes, my own clan.  For favors and protection aplenty, I assure you." Said Lavellan bitterly.  "I was useful enough as a spy to the Enclave, now to have the Inquisitor at their beck and call?  I could snip my ears, glue a beard to my face and they still wouldn't disown me."

Dorian sat in silence beside the elf, quietly letting that image sink in.

"Please don't."

That, at least, earned a soft, choked laugh from Lavellan.

"When we heard there was a Dalish encampment, I was thrilled.  To hear my own language again, to be surrounded for just a little while by my own. Do you have any idea what it's like to feel so homesick and be anathema?"

Beside him, Dorian cleared his throat.  Lavellan glanced up sharply, brows climbing his intricately marked forehead.

" _Oh_."

"Yes, indeed."  Dorian smiled gently, dark eyes gone soft at their outer edges. The strong, dark fingers he'd laced together and let hang between the bend of his own knees unbound themselves as he reached for one of the elf's fine-boned, paler hands.  Remarkable that such delicate things held such strength, had even just today been washed in so much blood.  He lifted Lavellan's hand, turned it palm upward and smoothed a thumb along the shallow creases of it before lowering his dark head to push a kiss into the little mound at the base of it's thumb.  Beside him Lavellan let out a breath.

"I used to know my place, Dorian.  Used to be so sure of it.  I was good at what I did and I loved my clan.  Now..."  He swallowed, curled fingers slightly to brush at Dorian's cheek. Stubble, even as close and carefully kept as the Tevinter's was still a new sensation, and one he found pleasantly distracting.  "How did you find your place, after you left?"

The mage lifted his head slightly, expression a mingling of mild surprise and that usual, delightfully wicked humor he always wore.

"Why,  _you_ , Amatus."

Lavellan blinked, and for a heartbeat the mage was treated to the most exquisitely heartbreaking expression to grace those fine Dalish features.  The elf lent forward and pressed his forehead against the Tevinter's, the hand Dorian had held rising to cup the back of his head, fingers sliding into dark hair.  

Dorian allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes, lingering there, with the tip of his nose brushing Lavellan's, the sensation of fingertips stroking infinitely slowly up his scalp against the grain of his hair sending an electric, sweet tingle singing from nerve to nerve in a quiet chorus.

He could, however, practically  _hear_  Varric's pen scratching furiously away with some horrific next installment to his literary repertoire.  Something terrible named  _Sweaty Sheets in Skyhold_  or worse.  Pulling back, he closed a hand around Lavellan's wrist to draw his hand away, turn it over and give it's slightly skinned knuckles a brief brush with his mouth before he rose with a ghost of a smile.  There were many, many good reasons Dorian Pavus preferred to be such a private man.

"I understand there is an empty tent on the edge of camp.  The young scout it belongs to is off seeing to another encampment at the moment.  I'm feeling rather lazy, think I'll just borrow his instead of bothering with my own."  He said, in obvious, to no one in particular, Lavellan smiling after him as he strolled off.

He could probably get at least six more arrows done before he followed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> loosely inspired by this loveliness  
> http://kisu-no-hi.tumblr.com/post/113693717029/theyre-gross-i-want-ten-of-them  
> AND THE ENDLESS SUN OF THE WESTERN APPROACH

_**The Western Approach**_

 "Why does my face hurt so much?"

It was long past dusk and the elf sat upon the edge of the cot in the shelter of the camp tent, stripped of armor down to the padding of pants and the sweat stiffened cloth of the loose underjerkin, hair messily coming free of its bindings in small clumps and wisps.  He'd just pulled off both worn leather gloves and was touching tenderly at his cheeks.

The Tevinter, already stretched long upon the cot, smiled with just the barest hint of superior humor.

"Not much sun to speak of in the north of Farelden, is there?  It's all mucking about under the canopy of leafy groves and frolicking in cold streams for your people, isn't it?"

"Something like that." Lavellan conceded, wincing as he touched gingerly at cheekbones.  Skin felt like fire, and even though the chill of the desert night had set in, he felt like he was radiating heat like a furnace- at least where his face was concerned.

"Mmn.  Unsurprising.  You're practically pale enough to be translucent."  The much darker complected Tevinter reached a lazy arm up to catch the unlaced edge of the Herald's shirt collar, dragging it askew and off one lean shoulder.  "Not that I mind...at all."

The backs of fingers slid a slow caress against the flat of the exposed shoulderblade.  It earned him a chagrined look over the edge of that bare skin. Dorian smiled charmingly upward, sweet as the devil with a new secret, and pulled the elf into the small cot, rolling to pin him under his considerably more solid weight.  He settled himself comfortably on elbows and cupped both sides of Lavellan's face in  both palms.

"It's called a sun burn, Amatus."

"We've both been out in the sun the same amount." The Herald pointed out, trying to sound contrary, but that pleased, crooked smile of his and his soft tone undid him.

"Yes... But I'm Tevinter.  You have noticed my skin, hmm?"

The elf's eyes flicked downward, along the bare line of throat and shoulders.  He splayed the fine length of fingers of one hand in the concave of the mage's lower back, teeth settling into his lower lip as he nodded.  Dorian was the shade of good, strong tea lapping against a porcelain cup, a rich color Lavellan loved dearly.  So different from any of the Dalish, and even most men he knew.  There was not an inch of the mage's skin he didn't silently crave.  Even the novelty of stubble and facial hair had yet to wear off, and probably never would.  

Lavellan's wandering line of thought was interrupted as the hands cupping either side of his face suddenly felt very different; a prickling but not unpleasant chill spread across his sun-reddened skin, and the immediate relief from the painful heat was enough to drop his mouth open a fraction as eyes rolled shut.

"Ooh."

He could feel the smugly satisfied smile of the mage above him.

"Mmnhmm.  Better?" 

The elf nodded fractionally, not wanting to break the soothing contact.  Dorian stroked thumbs over high cheekbones tenderly, thoroughly pleased with this particular reaction.  He used a knee to push Lavellan's legs apart, and settling into the space he'd made, rocked hips down once with a deliberate strength.

The soft hitch in the elf's breath and the way his head canted back was more than gratifying, and had the Tevinter grinning as he dipped his head to draw a soft brush of a kiss off the upward jut of the elf's sharp chin.  

They lay that way in satisfied silence; Lavellan with eyes blissfully shut, Dorian ever so slowly rocking hips in the barest tease of motion, watching this most unlikely lover the way a cat might watch the mouse it's been toying with play dead... though with a great deal more affection mingled in with all that watchful pleasure.

Eventually the fingertips cupping the elf's face began to wander, small grazing caresses that traced the intricate, delicate lines of the tattoo that sprawled across the flaweless, if sunburnt skin.  Eventually soft eyes blinked open to watch him in his fascination, still waters running deep.

"They're beautiful.  I don't think I ever told you. Did they hurt much?" When he broke the silence his voice felt disused, a bit ragged at its velvet edges.

"Very much."  Agreed Lavellan, quietly. "And you must undergo the writing in perfect silence."

Dorian traced a line over his brow.

"And if you don't?"

"The Keeper will stop, and you'll be left with the shame of an unfinished vallaslin to show your whole clan you were unfit for adulthood yet."

"That's rather harsh."

"The world is rather harsh.  Particularly for the elves." Came the terse rejoinder.  

Dorian's brows eased upward and he turned attention toward drawing a fingertip along another complicated pattern in silence, too wise by far to even try to pick the game of a snarky argument on this particular topic.  

"What is it?" He turned the tide with instead.

"The mark of the clan's devoted god."

"You just can't seem to get away from the divine, hm?"  Dorian asked, that familiar grin returning.  "Marked by the Dalish gods  _and_  by Andraste."  He lowered his head to brush a kiss to the apple of one burnt cheek.  "And now by the Maker's own sunshine."  He chuckled softly, pleased to see Lavellen smiling again when he pulled back, "Pretty soon there won't be one patch of you left unclaimed."

It was Lavellan's turn to arch brows upward with a soft laugh, and the hands he'd spread against the dip of Dorian's back tightened and pulled hips down once more, demanding.

"Really?  Well in that case I suppose you'd better leave your mark as well?  Wouldn't want the whole pantheon thinking they could have me all to themselves."

There was a noise caught somewhere between a pleased growl and laugh as Dorian shoved his face forward without hesitation, right into the crook of the elf's long throat, mouth catching skin in a sucking, biting, pulling barrage of a kiss that earned a shout of laughter from the Herald under him that the elf quickly stifled against one of Dorian's own shoulders.

It brought the Tevinter no small, smug sense of satisfaction the next day to watch Blackwall struggle to look anywhere but at The Herald's throat with its livid, deep plum bruise as Cassandra went over the next week's maneuvers, supply lines, and messages.  


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In-Game Spoilers and a little throw back line to another angsty, glowing elf

_**Skyhold** _

 

Dorian sat ensconced in his usual chair in the library, attention sunk deep into the book balanced in his lap.  The sound of rain pattering against the leaded glass panes beside him and the soft avian noises from the rookery above, coupled with his concentration was more than enough to allow him to miss the sound of quiet footsteps approaching, pausing, and then shuffling before they began to take their leave...however, the shadow cast over the flagstones before his chair did not go unnoticed, and the Tevinter glanced up just in time to catch Leliana's profile slipping away.

"Something you wanted, Lady Nightingale?"

There was a hushed sigh and the spymaster backtracked a step or two to appear around the corner of the alcove's arched frame.

"I was...looking for the Inquisitor.  Have you perchance seen him?"

"Mmn, no.  Not since breakfast." Dorian began to offer the spymaster an apologetic smile and turn back to his reading when something in her expression stopped him, and dark brows drew together slowly.

"You've lost him, have you?"

"Something like that."  Leliana hesitated, weighting some internal scales, and then finally, "There was a meeting of the war council earlier.  We hadn't even begun to address the new business.  Josephine handed the Inquisitor a letter... he looked at it, turned white, and left.  Just like that.  Josie walked out in tears, and won't speak with me of it.  Cullen and I were concerned."

She drew a frustrated breath, lifted one cowled shoulder and let it drop.

"I cannot find him anywhere.  I thought perhaps he might be with you, given your... acquaintance." 

"Acquaintance." Dorian repeated, allowing each syllable to drip sardonically. "Yes."

He shut his book and pushed up out of the comfortable chair. 

"Well, I suppose I ought to earn my keep a bit then, hm?  What good is having a devastatingly handsome mage laying about the place if he can't sniff out the odd Inquisitor gone missing?"

Leliana managed a half a wry smile.

"Thank you, Dorian."

He out did himself on a ridiculously flourished bow before breezing past her.  That insufferably good humored, carefree expression of his burnt away the second his back was to her, something more darkly concerned taking its place.

Lavellan had his spaces in Skyhold the same as any of them; those little corners of the massive fortress where he found his comfort and solitude best.  Though Dorian could have trusted that the spymaster of all people would have known to check these places first, he still went back through them himself, and found each empty.  He'd gone near half over the stronghold before steps turned him to one of the most obvious places- Lavellan's own chambers.  

Maker knew the elf spent precious little time there, but still.  It seemed foolish not to check.  

"Amatus?"  The ancient wooden staircases creaked as Dorian climbed up the tower, his voice bouncing off the stone walls, rising toward the door above.  No answer came.  Achieving the landing at last, he knocked once before pushing the door open, only to find the quarters empty and a low fire kept burning by the stronghold staff doing its best to keep some heat in the high vaulted room.

"Lavellan?" He tried again, glancing up toward the overhead alcove as he wandered in.

No elf to be found.  There were, however, the Inquisitor's pair of discarded tall boots that lay crumpled haphazard upon the middle of the carpet.  Dorian glared at the out of place things with irritation, as if they were to blame for losing their owner somewhere about the place.  Amusing as it ought to have been that there was a barefoot Dalish with a green glowing hand running about Skyhold apparently evading everyone, Dorian only felt a greater sinking sense of dread, for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on.

A missive from Josephine that had left her in tears, and the Inquisitor lost and now shoeless.  

Dorian bit at his lower lip, chewing the edge of it thoughtfully as he wandered toward the outer balconies, looking out into the rain soaked night over the jagged mountain range.  He happened to glance down as he shifted weight to move away, and eyes caught the damp on the flagstones just inside the shut doors.  Someone had opened them to the rain, kept them open for more than a moment, it appeared, and then shut them again.  The Tevinter sighed as he looked up and out into the weather again, steeling himself before opening the door and stepping out.

It was cold outside in the night air and the rain fell in fat, heavy drops that hit and soaked in seconds.  The balcony was empty, but... Dorian's eyes strayed to one side, along the outer ledge of the stonework.  Lavellan had shown him once, to his alarm, how he could easily traverse the minor ledge, climb round its corners, skirt the knifepoint edge of the nearest roof and scale straight up one of the highest towers in the fortress from the outside, straight up to its flat rooftop.

"Andraste's flaming arse hairs,  _no_."  The Tevinter breathed, looking up, and up, at that high tower to his left.  It had horrified him when the bloody elf had done it during a sunny afternoon.  Out here in this weather?  In bare feet?

For a half a horrible second as he let himself back inside and thundered down the tower steps, Dorian had a moment where he was unsure what might be the wisest course of action; head up to the near tower (via the sane person's way), or else to simply begin a search of the courtyards below for a vaguely elf shaped puddle of remains.  

The tower felt far less gruesome, so up he went.

He had to shove a hard shoulder against the trap door at its zenith, thrice, to knock the rusted, leaking thing open, sending it slamming wide at last, flying back on hinges to thump against the roof as he climbed up and back into the rain.

A breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding escaped him in a rush as eyes landed on grey figure tucked against the crumbling stone ramparts, nearly a part of it.  Dorian climbed out, up into the dizzying height and paced slowly toward it.

"Amatus."

Lavellan had folded his already slender shape in on itself.  Knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight above them, face shoved into the crook of one elbow.  He was a figure of misery, grey cloth soaked through and feet bare upon the cold stones, looking deathly pale.  Dorian approached silently, hesitating a moment before he sank to a knee beside the huddled shape of the Inquisitor.  The elf's hand nearest him held a crumpled sheaf of parchment in a deathgrip of a fist, and, prising it loose, Dorian shifted to sit down in the puddle beside Lavellan and uncrumple the parchment, scanning it closely in the dim light.

".... _regret to inform you that a contingent of soldiers gathered from other cities in the Free Marches attacked Wycome and slew most of the elves within, including all of the Dalish clan._

_They avoided attacking humans when possible, and were willing to meet with us once their bloody work was done. They professed shock that Duke Antoine had been using red lyrium and insisted that all they knew was that the elves had rebelled and killed the rightful rulers of the city._

_This has all been branded a tragic misunderstanding, and the nobles who now rule Wycome insist that they will repay the Inquisition for this horrible mistake_..."

Dorian groaned softly as he finished reading, glancing up to find that Lavellan's own head had lifted.  Long hair whipped out of its bindings by the wind and plastered flat by rain fell in wet rivers across a face so broken it twisted Dorian's heart in his chest with a nameless pain.

"My clan is dead."  Lavellan's voice cracked thickly.  "My family is gone, and it is all my fault."

"This is not-" Dorian started to protest, but was quickly cut off.

" _It is all my fault_."  The elf bared teeth in bitter vehemence before his expression crumpled back into that horrible mask of utter loss.

"I sent diplomats when I should have sent soldiers.  I am reminded constantly of how we must always set an example, of how much of my culture I have to protect and defend... how much we have left to rebuild.  It should have been bloodless.  Now..."

Lavellan shook his head, glaring off into the heavy sky beyond.  Pain warred with anger upon fine features and both armies eventually crumpled to desperation.

"When I drank from the well of sorrows, I knew there would be a price to pay.  I promised Mythal any price... but I did not think she would take this.   _Not this_."

Hands came drawing up to cradle his face as his head bent again, and there was the dry rack of a noise Dorian could hear over the rain that felt like cold knives through the core of himself.  He wrapped an arm around the elf's shoulders and pulled him in close, cupping his forehead with one hand as he pressed a cheek to the top of his soaked head.  He rocked them slowly, and, out of nowhere one of the old, childish Tevinter tunes his devotedly sweet, old nursemaid used to sing to him came back to memory.  He hummed it, deeply, and felt Lavellan, though shaking, sink closer.  The rain clung in thick drops to Dorian's eyelashes, and he could feel its cold fingers trickling down the back of his neck, but he sat with the elf, waiting, quietly humming over the silent shudders of painful loss.

When at last Lavellan's breathing eased into something far less ragged, Dorian pushed a kiss to one temple and let his forehead rest just there.

"Mythal didn't do this, Lavellan.  Idiotic people did.  This wasn't divine punishment."   _Just politics_ , he thought to himself, but gave no voice to.  "You cannot blame yourself for all the faults of man."

There was no reply from the lithe frame tucked up against himself, only a steady and regular shivering.  He let the silence settle over them with its unpleasant weight. 

"I am alone."

The weak voice caused Dorian to tighten the grip of his arm.  Suddenly that conversation they'd had several days ago where he'd insisted on heading back to Tevinter by himself felt like the most incredibly selfish thing he could imagine, not the selfless act it was meant to be.

"No, Amatus." He insisted, and pushed another kiss to his lover's chilled skin, echoing those words that felt so long ago.  "I am here. I will protect you."


	6. Chapter 6

_**Skyhold, later** _

 

Lavellan jerked awake, one of those hard, full body convulsions you felt knot your stomach, like the body's anticipation of the hard ending after a long fall.  Throat felt raw against a dry swallow, and the blink of bleary eyes were salt-burned.  He dug the palm of one hand into an eye only to realize a half a second later it was glowing sickly green in the dim light, and jerked the marked hand away again quickly.  There was a warm, heavy weight pressed half against his back as he lay on his side, and judging by the feel of the sheets against skin, someone had removed his clothes.  Hair felt half-dried and stiff.  He made a quiet, cracked-throat noise of confusion.  

A warm hand closed over his upper arm and pulled him back against that weight behind him.

"Nightmares, Amatus."

Lavellan let himself be tugged back and down at the familiar voice that purred beside him, relaxing into its pull and the weight of one well muscled arm that draped itself over him.  He shifted his head on the damp pillow, letting out a breath.  A trio of thick candles burned on the nightstand nearby, keeping vigil in the dark. 

"Was it all a nightmare?"  He asked, thickly, heart aching for hope.

The pregnant moment of silence that followed was answer enough.

"No, I'm sorry." 

Lavellan shut his eyes, let the light of the candles flicker dim red against the inside of eyelids as he caught his lower lip between the sharp crush of his own teeth and bit down harder than was necessary, a bit of pain to focus on away from the constant, dull, nameless ache he couldn't fight.  Breathing was difficult, felt like jagged stones lodged under his ribcage.  

Dorian's fist pressed itself against Lavellan's chest, right over the burn of a pile of ashes buried where his heart ought to have been, and unfurled fingers slowly.  

"You were talking in your sleep, something I couldn't understand."  The mage offered, grasping at distractions. 

Lavellan let out a breath and rolled over to face him, those fine eyes, gone red rimmed and heavy, flicking over the mage's features in the sparse light.  

"You say a lot of things I don't understand." He tossed back, a struggling attempt at the old verbal volley Dorian so adored.  It earned him a genuine, soft curl of a smile under that ridiculous mustache he'd grown to love.

"Nonsense.  Everything I say is perfectly sensible.  What's not to understand?"

"Well... whatever it was you said at the Well."

Dorian cocked a dark brow.

"Just before I came to, I could hear you.  I... it felt like swimming toward your voice. You were shouting something, and then you threatened to kill me if I didn't make it through."  Lavellan managed a weak smile, and pulled a hand up between them both to touch at Dorian's chin,  fingertip brushing down against the small patch of dark hair just under his lower lip.  "Fes...Feast..."

"Festis bei umo canavarum."  Dorian helpfully interjected amid the stumblings.  The hand that now lay lose against Lavellan's back instead of against his chest rose and cradled the nape of his neck tenderly. "You will be the death of me."

Lavellan's broken attempt at a smile faltered and failed at that, eyes dropping along with the pointed tilt of the one long ear Dorian could see.  Perhaps not the best moment to translate that particular colloquialism.  

"It's not as if I wouldn't have come along willingly, Amatus.  If there's someone in this world who could possibly kill me without my express permission, I haven't met him yet."  He tightened his grip a bit upon the back of Lavellan's neck.  "Nor would I want to, come to think of it."

The elf sighed and glanced back up with a dry uptilt of one edge of his mouth.

"There was another... uh...Kaffas?"

Dorian stifled a chuckle.  

"Shit."

"Oh! Ahaha, oh..."

"I like Amatus." Lavellan confessed, almost shyly.

"Do you?"  Dorian's smile felt like sunshine, and the brush of his mouth against Lavellan's was a slow, small treasure.  "Good."

The weight of the evening had eased a bit, tension unspooling from aching limbs in thin threads. Lavellan shifted a bit, seeking out a more comfortable fit against the mage, and fitted one lean leg between the weight of Dorian's, letting fingers find preoccupation over the shape and feel of his ribcage.

"You know, you said once that you like to visit Solas to hear him say your name?" Dorian asked mildly.  He'd never be willing to admit that something about that particular little nugget of conversation had struck a nerve.

"Mmn. Lavellan." The elf agreed, speaking his own clan name, only instead of the enuncated vowels and hard consonants the whole of the name was softened, its sharpness ground away and polished against the tongue with oiled silk.  Not the La-VELL-en that everyone else spoke, but Laff-ah-leen.  There was a difference between reading about magic and putting it into practice, Dorian knew well.  Language was just another form of it all.  

"I've noticed you never call me da'len."  Dorian murmured, half distracted by the soft sensation of slightly callused fingertips against his skin.  Lavellan's head jerked up, and to Dorian's surprise the elf broke into a genuine, if rough, little laugh.

"I'd never call you that.  Where did you pick that up?"

Dorian's expression fought itself between mild offense and almost embarrassed amusement.

"That Keeper in the Emerald Graves.  And... I've heard it before."

In spite of himself, Lavellan could not stop his soft, breathless laughter.

"It means little child, or my child!"

"Oh!" Dorian's irreverent laughter joined the elf's.  "In that case, please continue _not_   ever calling me that."

Lavellan's first genuine grin in what felt like ages gentled at its edges.

"No... you are ma vhenan.  Aneth ara."  The language was beautiful on his tongue, did something to that voice of his with its shockingly refined accent, changed it in some indefinable way you felt more than heard.  Dorian's dark eyes shut for a moment, savoring, before he canted his head against the pillow in silent question.  Lavellan's hand stilled its spider-climb up the hollows between ribs and intercostal muscle, slid instead to cover the same spot on Dorian's chest that the mage had covered on his own a few minutes prior.

"My heart.  My safe place."

The reward of Dorian's expression warmed that cold pit that had been yawning in the core of Lavellan's self.  There was a keen vulnerability behind the intense flick of Dorian's dark eyes back and forth over the elf's features as those words sunk in, something so often hidden behind the mage's glib and faultlessly charming exterior.  

" _Ar lath ma, ma vhenan_."  Lavellan whispered, unable to stand the sweet scrutiny of that expression after another second, and pushed his face up under the Tevinter's chin, mouth against his throat breathing words in a language that felt like home to the most foreign of men he could have ever found such a place with.


	7. Chapter 7

_**The Frostback Basin** _

 

A long, long day spent slogging through marshes and cold swamps in the insufferable high altitude, chasing after Marker-damned bears, ancient shreds of the last Inquisitor, and fucking spirits.  All surrounded by the unwashed Avvar and a thousand bloody spiders.  It was more than enough to put any self respecting Tevinter in a piss poor mood, and little wonder there were so many of their ruins strewn about the place.  Who'd care to stay?  

Dorian sat before the campfire, soggy, half frozen and in the blackest of humors, the slop that passed for rations cooling on the plate he held as he watched the Inquisitor, apparently none the worse for wear, conversing animatedly with Lieutenant Farrow across the fire.  

The pair of elves sat close enough knees brushed, heads bent toward one another as they carried on like a pair of crows in Leliana's rookery, chattering away half-in, half-out that incomprehensible Dalish and the common tongue, both with bright smiles.  Farrow dug an elbow into light armor over Lavellan's ribs with some unintelligible comment, and Lavellan's head rocked back in delighted, raucous laughter that had half the day-weary camp turning in curiosity to watch the Inquisitor.  Dorian curled wet, frozen toes in damp boots.  The massive bulk of the Bull settled down beside him, one large wooden tankard of something that smelt like it had been crafted to peel paint off boat hulls cradled in his huge hand.

Across the way, Farrow was rising, taking the Inquisitor's plate from him, which elicited an embarrassedly grateful smile from Lavellan.   _Maker's balls_ , sometimes it seemed like he'd been born to this role, other times he was such a beggar-turned-prince that the fumbling sincerity was almost nauseating.  Beside him, Bull sipped at the noxious drink he held.  Farrow returned, took up his gear, and Lavellan rose as well.  They weren't far enough away to make the conversation entirely private.

"...headed out on patrol." Lt. Farrow was explaining, watching Lavellan's face with an intentness that Dorian felt crawl right up his spine with little barbed feet. "...not my place to ask... care to accompany...?"

The Inquisitor's lopsided smile was apologetic, even if his answer was half-obscured by the surrounding noise of the camp and the ungodly racket of the miasma of insects in the near distance.

"... _Ir abelas_." 

Farrow took the rejection in gracious stride.

"...take my leave..."

"Dismissed, Lieutenant."

" _Dareth shiral, Lethallin_."

Lavellan watched the other elf take his leave, that smile haunting his face prodding red hot pokers at the heat of Dorian's ire.  The mage didn't even notice when Bull took the cold plate out of his hand and began contentedly noshing down the forgotten rations.  When at last the Inquisitor turned, looked around the circle of the fire, and made his way toward the mage and Bull, Dorian's dark, silent expression seemed fit to raise the dead all on its own.  He picked up the tankard Bull had set down and swallowed a searing mouthful of the rotgut, watching Lavellan over the rough rim.

"Well that seemed like quite a tempting offer."  He said, before Lavellan had a chance to open his mouth, or even take a seat.  The elf looked irritatingly, innocently confused. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to wander off in the woods with Lt. Farrow for an hour or two?  He's very fetching... and so obviously excited at the chance to serve the Inquisitor, I mean the Inquisition."

" _What_."  Lavellan looked as if someone had smacked him across the face with a nug.

"Or you know, there's always lovely Cosette, hmm?  If you were interested in a change of pace perhaps.  She was so taken with your enthusiasm for crumbling parchments and rusted ancient swords.  You know what they say the Orlesians can do with their tongues, hm?"

Beside him the Bull, in between forkfulls, chimed in.

"Stick them all the way up their own arses?"

"Quite." Dorian rose, but his path was immediately blocked by Lavellan, fine brows drawn and expression unsure if it wished to settle more toward amusement or irritation.

"You're...jealous?"  The Inquisitor managed to choke out.  " _You_.  You of all people."

"What do you mean, me of all people?" Dorian parried back, ruthlessly, refusing to give an inch.

"Oh...I'm not sure, ask Cole.  He seems to know all about it."  Lavellan's face was not one made for the kind of bitterness it suddenly assumed, it wore him like an ill-fitting shirt.  " _Rilienus, skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles_."

Lavellan rallied at the way Dorian's mouth dropped open.  His turn now.

" _He would have said yes_?  Still got a lot on your mind, have you?  Feel Tevinter calling? You've got some nerve.  You know the thing all you bloody people seem to forget about elves?  We have big fucking ears.   _We can hear you_."  

It felt both wonderful and horrific to stand there and watch Dorian of all people grasping for words in the wake of such harshness.  There was a sinking, sucking sensation at the edge of it though; the cold satisfaction of burning your own house down.

"I think I will take a night patrol.  I'm sure Lt. Farrow hasn't gone far."

Lavellan turned sharply and stalked away, leaving Dorian to stand there in his cold fury.

"You know, that's a pretty ugly color on you both."  The Bull grumbled from where he sat.  Dorian had nearly forgotten he was even there, no small feat for such a massive man.  No wonder he'd been Ben-Hassrath.  

"What?" Dorian asked, harsher then was necessary, though he sank back down beside the Qunari.

"Green."  Replied Bull, offering over the tankard again.  Dorian accepted the foul stuff with a begrudging amount of gratitude.

"Venhedis, this is awful." Dorian choked, downing two hard swallows and handing the tankard back.

"Yeah it is.  What are you gonna do about it?"  Bull asked with an arched brow, leveling one of those even, uncompromising looks at the mage.  "It's no huge secret you two have been at it like nugs.  You really gonna try to keep pretending you actually thought the Inquisitor was gonna let that lieutenant bend him over a log?"

"You've got such a talent for description, you know that Bull?" Dorian groused, though not without a touch of humor.

"It's a gift, what can I say?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Glad to see so many people enjoying these little stories! Comments and rec's are always very welcome, as are suggestions or prompts! Thank you all for reading, it means a lot!


	8. Chapter 8

_**The Frostback Basin** _

 

Dorian woke with a groan, head throbbing like he'd taken a warhammer to the temple and unfortunately survived.  Mouth felt dry and furry and foul, as if a fennic had curled up and died there sometime in the night.  He lurched upright, a choice he immediately regretted, and found he'd somehow managed to make it back to his tent, though had only gotten himself halfway across his cot.  Steeling himself, he stood up, took one step and immediately pitched forward over the passed out bulk of the Bull, who lay facedown on the floor of the tent.

" **FASTA VASS**!" Dorian rolled over and struggled back to his feet - after several unsuccessful attempts - regaining his feet wobbily, grinding the heels of palms into tired eyes.  Below him he could hear Bull grunt and stir.

"MnMPH! DRAGONS!  HnNN...wha?" 

Dorian dropped his hands to glare blearily down at the Qunari, willing the world to stop tilting to one side as he did so.

"What in Maker's name happened last night?"

Bull was pushing himself upright, looking none the worse for wear at all, and, drawing up to as much of his height as the tent would allow, fixed Dorian with that one good eye and grinned.  

"Can you still walk?  Still feel your feet?  Think you'll be able to sit again this week?"  

Dorian frowned, glanced down at himself standing upright, decided the answer to all of these questions was an obvious yes and looked back up at the Bull with an affirmative, glottal noise and a shrug.

"Well then, nothing too troublesome."

Dorian rolled his eyes and turned to shove open the flap of the tent and push out into the hideously bright morning sunshine, recoiling from it's searing rays with a soft hiss of breath.  Bull ducked out of the tent behind him and stretched upward with a luxurious yawning groan.

"Aaaaaaaaaahhhn.   Mmn yes.  What happened last night."  The Qunari grinned, clapping a heavy hand between Dorian's shoulderblades and using the grip he took to steer the mage through the camp slowly.  "Well, first, you made a damn fool of yourself with the Inquisitor."

Dorian could recall that part clearly enough, and that black cloud settled back over exhausted features at the memory.

"After that you decided it would be a great idea to drink more of that Avvar malt, a lot more, and then you wanted to teach some of the Avvar to play Wicked Grace.  You and I both lost all our coin and nearly our shirts to Scout Harding.  After that I think there was singing, more drinking, you cornered some poor elf and gave him the most severe and incomprehensible what-for I think I've seen this side of Par Vollen.  I dunno who you thought he was but by the time you were done I'm fairly sure he was ready to apologize for ever daring to slip a single foot outside his mother."

The pair of them stopped by a freshwater barrel and Bull scooped up a huge handful, splashed his face, scrubbed a bit, scooped up more, slurped, swished and spit.  Dorian watched the entire display, one edge of his upper lip curling... until Bull reached, grabbed him by the back of the head and dunked him face-first into the cold water helpfully.  Dorian came up sputtering, blinking, and dripping, but far more alert.  He reeled backward, sluicing water off his face with both hands and held out a warning finger as Bull grinned and made to drag him forward and dunk him again.

"No!  No.  Thank you, yes that is much better, but you do it again I will set your smallclothes on fire right here and now."   He slicked back wet hair, blinking heavy drops off dark lashes and blew away the drops falling from his upper lip with a huff of breath.  

"Haha.  Good luck with that.  Don't wear any."

"Delightful." Dorian deadpanned.  

"Anyway."  Bull turned and walked on, headed for the mess table to grab whatever hot, brewed, caffeinated thing they were offering, be it bitter coffee so dark you could see stars in your cup, or whatever ground leaves passed for the local tea.  "After that I uh, think we went goat-tipping with Blackwall and some Avvar.... maybe?  We might have actually left Blackwall in that field, come to think of it."  

Clearly even the Bull's own constitution hadn't quite held up against the Avvar malt.

"Then I dropped you back in your tent and figured someone better watch you to make sure you didn't go wandering off and get taken advantage of by a gorgut in the middle of the night."

"You mean you had no idea where _your_ tent was and you figured one floor was as good as another." Dorian corrected with a dark half of a grin, blowing the steam off the cup Bull shoved into his hands.  Bull shrugged and downed the molten liquid in one shot.

"That too."  

The pair settled upon one of the logs near the smoldering remains of the fire, Bull tucking into a plate of double rations, cracking the softboiled eggs one by one against one of his horns before peeling them with surprising delicacy.  The mere thought of food was more then enough to put Dorian right off, however, and he stuck to nursing the blissfully thick coffee cradled in both hands, watching the general millings and goings on about the camp.  Across the way Scout Harding spotted his gaze, smiled broadly and waved.  Dorian showed those fine teeth of his in the nearest approximation of a smile he was capable of.  Something about the expression caused Harding's eyes to widen slightly before she turned away hurriedly.

Ah yes, and there he was - Lavellan, striding across the camp with, yes, fucking Lt. Farrow.  The pair of them looking irritatingly fresh-faced, pale cheeks flushed with the cool morning air, the tips of long ears just as rosy pink, wearing bright smiles as if neither of them had even ever had a hangover _explained_ to them, yet alone experienced one.

_I think I will take a night patrol.  I'm sure Lt. Farrow hasn't gone far._

The words of last night rung in Dorian's ears as dark, narrowed eyes watched the pair of elves.  Had he found him?  Certainly looked that way.  One could be forgiven for thinking that flush was less the work of a chill morning and more the fun of the night before.  Dorian could just picture it; Lavellan with his back pushed up against a tree, mouth hung open in that perfect O of bliss he made, Farrow's mouth on his throat, his jaw, thumb dragging along the stretched edge of his open mouth.  Tongue a slide against tongue with those soft noises Lavellan habitually made in the back of his throat. Farrow dropping to his knees, Lavellan's hands in the other elf's short, pale hair, grasping, gauntlet-clumsy, at soft handfuls as the heat of the other elf's mouth slid along his cock as Lavellan's stomach clenched, curling spine to a shallow comma... Farrow with his face pushed into a carpet of dried leaves, Lavellan with one hand braced between lean shoulderblades, knelt behind him, the dead leaves crackling in the lieutenant's faltering grasp... 

Dorian stood up and tossed the last of his coffee into the ashes.

"Pavus..."  The Bull's voice held a warning tone, the kind a parent might use before a child reached to touch a hot stove.  

"We've got work to do today, Bull."  Dorian said coolly, turning his back to head off for his tent, to take something a bit stronger than camp brew coffee to stop the throbbing ache in temples, and dress for the day.  Lavellan found the tent empty twenty minutes later when he poked his head in, and his group of still mildly hungover and sullenly silent companions waiting for him at the camp gates.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In-game spoilers for Jaws of Hakkon, some dialogue lifted directly from the game to keep as close to canon as possible.
> 
> Not gonna lie, Jaws of Hakkon and Inquisitor Ameridan fucked me up something hard. Every time I think playing this game as an elvhan Inquisitor can't get any more exquisitely painful I am proved wrong.

_**The Frostback Basin** _

 

_Take moments of happiness where you find them. The world will take the rest..._

Far behind him, the camp was in full flung celebration, every last Inquisition soldier and Avaar tribesman drunk and giddy on the day's dragon fight.  The joy was infectious, undeniable, and raucous... but to Lavellan, any kind of celebration felt hollow.  He could not shake the sound of that voice, Ameridan's voice, and each time he shut his eyes, each time he so much as blinked it was the last Inquisitor's face, so like his own, staring back at him in the darkness.  So tired, after 800 years.  

Up above on the hill behind him a figure wandered out of the crowd, stood upon the edge of the firelight looking down at the lone Inquisitor sitting by the shores of the thawing lake.  It had been days since they'd spoken.  Dorian could cold-shoulder with a frost that would have had a few things to teach the chill wind blowing off the high lakes.  

The events of the past few days, however, had reduced the feeling of what he'd once contented himself was indignation and cold pride to a petty bitterness.  

It was burning a slow hole through Dorian.  

He started down the hill toward where Lavellan sat in his self-imposed isolation, watching the elf curiously as he neared.  There was a green glow illuminating him in the dark, flashing on and off.  It was only as he came a bit closer he could see Lavellan with his marked hand, opening and closing it, tens of little pinpricks of white light dancing around him in an erratic little waltz.

 _Maker_.  He was charming the fireflies.

Dorian couldn't help the soft laughter that welled up out of him.  Lavellan glanced up at the sound, bright fist closing tight, like a child caught with a stolen cookie, though a second later he offered up a priceless, embarrassed smile before turning attention back upon the lake.  Dorian eased himself down into a seat beside him, and, taking up the most readily available icebreaker, nodded toward the dully glowing fist the Inquisitor kept closed.

"The mark giving you troubles?"

"There's a rift we must have missed, somewhere close.  Tomorrow..." Lavellan shrugged, his voice flat.

"No rest for the wicked."  Dorian smiled, not without understanding.

"What you've done, Lavellan..."  He began anew, "For Ameridan, for history.  The ramifications will be far-reaching."

Lavellan turned his head to look long at the mage beside him, his silent, fine boned face inscrutable, though there was something horribly painful swimming the tides of those eyes in the muted green glow of the anchor.  It killed Dorian, that keen vulnerability that somehow lay at the heart of this strange creature who'd taken down a two ton ice breathing god-monster just this afternoon.  He exhaled and forced himself to look away across the water, but could feel the continued weight of those eyes against his profile.

" _Vehnan_."  That sweet name tightened Dorian's features subtly, drew brows inward and down.  Lavellan didn't fail to miss the way the air chilled.

"I've wanted to talk about us."

"Oh?"  Dorian's voice was glib as ever, with an underlying note of tightness that Lavellan could feel rather than hear.  It would have been so easy for someone who'd spent less time alongside the prideful Tevinter to miss.  "What's the latest news on the 'us' front then?  Ready to have your freedom at last?  Well it was fun while it lasted, hm?"

Lavellan sat in stung silence for a moment.

"Nothing happened between Farrow and I, Dorian."

"No? What a pity to miss such an opportunity, but you know, we haven't left yet.  I'm sure there's still time."

Lavellan sighed in frustration.

"You think just because he's an elf, and I'm an elf that means....what?" 

"Well, truth be told we're probably not suited to each other.  Which is sad, but there it is." Dorian replied evenly, any notes of regret casually cloaked in flippancy.  "The Herald of Andraste carrying on with a Tevinter mage?  Preposterous."  

"You have to be the dumbest smart man I've ever known."

"Oh, come on, that's not fair.  You know Cullen."

" _Fenedhis, vhenan!_ " Lavellan's patience snapped, and at last Dorian turned a mildly shocked expression back upon him.  "I have never wanted anyone the way I want you, how can you not know that?  I've given up, lost so many things to this... this sense of _halam'shivanas_." _  
_

Dorian's brows dug down harder as he shook his head briefly in confusion.

"The sacrifice... sweet sacrifice of duty."  Lavellan explained brusquely, impatiently overwhelmed.  "I didn't lie to Ameridan, vhenan.  I never asked for this, any of this... but I'd never take it back.  If none of this had happened I'd never met _you_.  If my being elvhen is a problem for you, let me know, because I can't keep explaining to you that it's never bothered me what people think or say about us.  It bothers me that you would be unhappy, though.  I walked into this with my eyes open.  But if all I am is a... a novelty to you?"

"Never." Dorian murmured, a touch shamed at the vehement passion pouring out of the elf at his side after his own callousness.

"This." Lavellan released a breath and felt like all the wind, all the fire had gone out of him with it. "This has been a nightmare.  I feel like I could have been watching my own life these past few days.  If I were in Ameridan's place... I can't say I would have done differently.  And to know what Telana went through, just to see him again.  Dreaming herself to death to reach him."  

He shook his head and shifted in his seat in the tall grass uncomfortably.

"It's been so tempting, to push you away."  He glanced at Dorian apologetically, as if even the thought itself was unforgivable betrayal. "Save you from ever being hurt by me, because of me, save you from hurting yourself for me."  

Lavellan breathed a mirthless laugh.

"But you know, Varric introduced me to the Champion of Kirkwall?  I'd read Varric's book before, who hasn't?  I knew about Fenris and the Champion, or at least what Varric was willing to share.  I asked the Champion about him, why he'd come to Skyhold alone.  He answered that Fenris would have killed himself to keep him safe, and he couldn't give him that chance.  But the pain he carries around, the way he said it, the way he looks now, like a ghost, like a man still walking around after the best part of him has been torn out, left behind... "

He leveled a look of harrowing sincerity at Dorian, fine features so unguarded that all the proud attempts the mage had been making to protect his own ego suddenly felt criminal.  He had been an idiot, hadn't he?  Reverted so easily back to that facade he'd worn like a second skin for the better part of his life.  It was difficult not to carry Tevinter everywhere with him, to adjust to the fact that, at least in the space surrounding Lavellan, things were different.  Old habits were dying hard.  The elf was killing them off one by one, fighting them as hard as he was battling all the other monsters surrounding him.  

"It's difficult you know."  The mage replied, measuring out his words.  "Not to feel as if perhaps I am a distraction.  Something stealing valuable time away from you and all your duties."

Lavellan began to protest, but Dorian held up a silencing hand.

"You are the Inquisitor, amatus.  King of the World.  I am pleased with whatever time I can have, while I can."

Lavellan shook his head wordlessly and, turning from his seat onto hands and knees,  closed the space between them, shoving Dorian over backward in the grass only to straddle him, elbows coming to rest on the mage's chest as he cradled his face in gloved hands, one of which was still glowing painfully, its green reflecting in the flick of eyes over Dorian's features; starved things eating up their fill as if they'd never be fed again.

"I can't stop hearing it.   _Take moments of happiness where you find them. The world will take the_ _rest_."  He dipped low, caught Dorian's mouth, kiss hungry and tenderly savage in its need.  The days without this had felt like years, and Dorian's own hands came up to grasp tightly around the wrists of the hands that cradled his face, his chin pushing upward as his mouth opened under Lavellan's hunger.  When at last the Inquisitor broke free, eyes were still closed a moment after as he caught his breath.  When they opened they were no less intense, no less sincere and openly terrified as they had been a minute ago.

" _Let me be selfish with you, vhenan_."  Lavellan's voice had gone raw with the kiss, wonderfully rasp where it was usually so softly refined.  "Maker and all the gods, let me be unkind enough to ask that of you. _Tel'abelas, emma lath._ "

Dorian released his grasp on wrists to wrap arms around the elf bent low over him, tumbling him over into the grass to pin him beneath himself, not caring to be gentle about it, the vicious ache in his ribcage too demanding for anything but the most painful of tenderness.  

"You need never ask again, amatus."

 

Later that night, in the warm privacy of the tent, Lavellan lay fighting the sweet pull of sleep, every lean inch of him tucked comfortably half under the Tevinter that lay against him, propped upon one elbow, tracing the elf's vallaslin with the pad of his thumb in that gentle, absent way that had nearly become habit of a caress in silent moments. 

"I'm sorry for what I said... about Rilienus, and..."

Above him, Dorian huffed a laugh.

"Amatus, you aren't the one who should be apologizing.  Besides, Cole says a great many things that he sees that are well past." 

"He's not always off though."  Lavellan countered, struggling to keep eyes open as he brought a hand up to stroke a finger over that small, dark beauty mark just beside Dorian's right eye.  

" _Wishing but wondering, wounded and wistful. What if he doesn't want me after?_ "

The Inquisitor heard far more than Dorian had anticipated.  His mouth curved however, after the initial surprise, and he repeated himself again.

"But he did."

Lavellan's hand cupped his cheek, thumb gracing over the upward shape of Dorian's generous mouth.

"Now you're smiling.  It's good."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this really ought to be a new first chapter, but because pretty much most of these chapters are random anyhow and I am lazy, on vacation, and three margaritas into my evening whoops it's just getting posted here.  
> Timing-wise this takes place well before The Last Resort of Good Men.

_**Crestwood** _

Lavellan ducked into the tent, sodden and shivering. It had been sheeting down rain all day, cold and gloomily dark, the incessant winds whipping away any warmth the soaking rains failed to steal on their own. His head had begun to ache from the way teeth chattered together, and every fibre of muscle felt sore, exhausted from the struggle to maintain warmth. He wanted nothing so badly as to shed the wet weight of armor.

Quiver, bow, and knives dropped heavily one by one at the foot of the empty cot, followed by a struggle with gauntlets before they too hit the floor. It was only then that he realized the trouble he was in.

The new Warden Scout armor was, without a doubt, superior to anything the undercroft had provided him thus far; sturdy and light but much more protective than his previous outfittings, without hindering the movement he needed. Little wonder the Wardens were so renowned.

The problem, however, were all the unfamiliar bloody buckles, combined with fingers numbed by the cold, all dexterity lost with their uncontrollable shaking. A good fifteen minutes had passed and Lavellan was still struggling fruitlessly, cursing under his breath and between chattering teeth as he practically chased himself around in a slow circle trying to reach a buckle high up behind his left arm when he heard the tent flap rustle aside and froze, looking up guiltily.

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry. Didn't realize this tent was taken." Dorian stood inside the open flap of the tent he held aside, standing half in, and clearly struggling with an amused smirk at the scene he'd stumbled upon.

Lavellan let his hands fall to his sides, succumbing to the futility for the moment to save himself any further embarrassment. Would that he could stop his shivering as easily.

"N-n-not enough t-t-tents." He chattered. "It's f-f-fine."

He gestured to the empty cot across from the one he'd claimed, by way of explanation that they would all be required to double or even triple up for the time being.

Dorian's dark brows rose in a touch of concern as he stepped inside and let the tent flap fall back into place behind him.

"You're chilled to the bone." He remarked, pulling his staff from his back to lean it up against the near corner of the tent before undoing the outer cloak that draped half across himself, hanging the sodden thing atop the staff. The Inquisitor hesitated before allowing himself a pitiful, slight nod. Dorian himself looked far less bedraggled than Lavellan felt, most likely due to some kind of clever enchantment or another.

"Well. We can't have the Herald of Andraste dying of a chill." The Tevinter said, expression relaxing into that usual beguiling smile that Lavellan, quite secretly, found so distractingly charming. "That's far too ignominious an end for something as grand as the Inquisition, wouldn't you say?"

Lavellan breathed a shivering laugh, forcing a smile of agreement before looking down at himself in helpless frustration. Suddenly there were another set of feet before his own in his field of vision, and when his head jerked up Dorian was directly in front of him.

"Allow me?"

Lavellan looked like a nug caught in a bright light at night... But he nodded, slowly, and could feel his throat work in a visible, dry swallow. He dropped the arms he'd unconsciously wrapped around himself in a warmth conserving hug and offered Dorian his left wrist, which the Tevinter accepted, unbuckling vambraces first. Bit by bit pieces of the light armor hit the ground around them as Dorian worked, Lavellan hyperconscious of the mage's proximity, but unable to stop himself from watching intently as Dorian freed him from the layers of protection.

When Dorian dropped to a knee before him and wrapped hands around a thigh to unbuckle the tops of knee gaurds, Lavellan could finally feel an inner heat flood up against the skin of his face, watching that bent dark head hovering so close to his groin. Dorian shifted, and in a moment of panic that he'd be caught looking, Lavellan forced his attention away sharply. When Dorian did glance up it was to find the Inquisitor, with two bright, burning patches of red searing death pale cheeks, staring at the far corner with an intensity that threatened to set the tent cover on fire any second now. Puzzled, he freed Lavellan's leg and, cupping his calf, pulled the shin and knee guard away. It was the small tensing jump the Herald gave, and the way his eyes shut tight for a fraction of a second as teeth set hard into his lower lip that had the lightbulb flickering on for Dorian.

_Oh. Interesting._

His grin curled wickedly as he rose and continued his work, stepping behind the Inquisitor to undo the chest piece.

"I wonder," he murmured, and Lavellan once again jumped a bit to hear that voice purring so close to his ear, "If you find getting out of your own armor such a struggle, how would you ever undress me?"

The teasing note in his voice was quite clear enough to allow the comment to be taken as nothing more than a harmless jest, should his assumption miss its mark, but there was more than enough invitation in it as well.

"Up." He commanded, lifting the breastplate by its shoulder straps.

Lavellan lifted his arms above his head, feeling for all the world like a child back to being undressed by his mother, and waited for the breastplate to clear his head and arms before turning to face the mage, offering him a sardonic smirk, albeit with still chattering teeth. He glanced meaningfully and thoughtfully down at Dorian's attire, an outfit seemingly made entirely out of buckles, toggles, straps, and belts.

"If I w-w-wanted t-to g-get you out of your clothes, I'd j-just use a nice b-b-bottle of wine. Or t-two."

That earned a shocked and delighted laugh from Dorian, who leveled the Inquisitor with a penetrating hazel gaze, the kind that felt dangerously like a snake charming it's prey into stillness. He didn't even need to flick eyes away to pull open the stays on the sodden, padded mail underjerkin one by one, being a bit rough about it, enjoying the way Lavellan's lean frame jerked a bit with each sharp tug. Once opened, he shoved the thing carelessly off the elf's lean shoulders onto the floor of the tent, and without preamble, grabbed the hem of the soaked, thin cotton tunic that was the last layer left to the Inquisitor, and peeled it up and off the pale skin it stuck to. He tossed it aside, watching Lavellan wrap leanly muscular arms back around himself in that shivering hug for warmth, and indulged himself quite obviously and openly in a few more moments of appreciative observation before leaning to pull a blanket off the nearest cot and wrap it around the elf's shoulders. He kept hold of its edges thoughtlessly, watching Lavellan's shivering ease slightly with the dry insulation of it against his back and shoulders.

"Huh."

Lavellan, who'd nearly forgotten the face-numbing chill he felt as he watched Dorian watching him, looked a bit struck by the noise of chagrin the mage made. Fine brows furrowed a little as he searched Dorian's face.

"What?" Lavellan asked, perhaps a touch too sharply, for the tone of it jerked Dorian's attention back up to his face with an alacrity that suggested perhaps the Tevinter had forgotten himself for an uncharacteristic moment.

"What? Oh. I'd just been terribly curious." He replied, his smile gently reassuming it's throne upon his face.

"About...?"

"About whether those lovely tattoos of yours went further than just your face." His gaze returned to the swath of Lavellan's unmarked chest still visible between the edges of the blanket Dorian realized he had yet to let go of. He wrapped them one over the other against the elf, tucking him into the warmth and regrettably closing off his view.  
Lavellan watched the mage for a long, silent moment.

"Disappointed?" Lavellan finally asked, with a belying note of surprising vulnerability that brought Dorian up short, had him stepping in to rub heat into the outside of both the elf's arms, over the blanket wrap.

"No! No." He reassured before grinning and lifting a shoulder in a half a shrug. "Well... It would have been rather amusing if you had a little dragon or something else a bit naughty on you somewhere."

Lavellan sputtered a laugh.

"You haven't seen all of me yet! Perhaps I do." He teased, the words getting out before his brain had time to stop them. The two spots of color on his cheeks spread as he watched Dorian's eyes widen and his smile curl ever upward.

"True! I could yet win the bet. Let's find out, hm?" A hand dropped to grab hold of the laced stays of Lavellan's pants and the elf almost immediately tried to jerk hips away and wrestle that hand loose while still holding the blanket around himself- a maneuver that failed utterly in every way to dislodge the tugging loose of those strings as Dorian fumbled with the knot of them.

"YOU HAD A BET?!?" The Inquisitor cried, half laughing, half frantic to protect what modesty he had left, especially since all of Dorian's attentions had left him half-hard and he had no desire to give the Tevinter that much power over him just yet.

"Oh you know Varric, Bull, and I. We'll take odds on anything. Sera's got some coin on the color of your small clothes too, so let's kill two birds with one stone, shall we?"

The playful struggle eventually brought the backs of Lavellan's knees right up against the edge of one of the cots, and he struggled not to fall backward as Dorian closed in on him, pinning him in. He wobbled and in spite of himself had to grab at the outsides of Dorian's arms to keep himself from pitching backward. Considering that he still held to the blanket wrapped about himself, this just brought the pair of them nearly stomach to stomach, the protective veil of the blanket about them both like warm wings. Nose to nose with the Inquisitor, Dorian stilled his tormenting, though that grin remained, and he released his grip of stays slowly, knuckles turning outward as they brushed, ever so gently, up the tender skin from the top edge of pants toward the elf's navel.

"...Dorian." He was rewarded with his own name, a strangled whisper of a plea in Lavellan's mouth.

"Begging?" He purred, the topmost knuckle bending to ghost a caress in against the dip of Lavellan's navel. "From you? How novel."

Lavellan's mouth opened, whether to retort, continue, or let a moan out was unclear, and would remain so, because at that precise second-

"Inquisitor, if you have a moment..." Cassandra's sharp, no nonsense tone broke in on them as she shoved the flap of the tent aside and ducked in without preamble.

The pair of them nearly jumped apart, which of course, resulted in Lavellan falling back in a hard seat upon the cot behind him.

Cassandra stopped, looking from the Tevinter to the Inquisitor and back again, her dark eyes narrowing from their initial surprise. Lavellan, half dressed and wrapped in the disheveled cloak of the blanket, looked painfully guilty. Dorian, on the other hand looked completely unruffled, a magnificent feat indeed, considering the way he stood amongst the pile of Lavellan's shed armor and clothes.

"What is..." She began.

"Seeker!" Dorian interrupted her by way of boisterous greeting. "The Inquisitor's just caught a bit of a chill, I'm afraid. I'll leave him in your capable hands while I fetch some soup."

Pulling his cloak off his staff where he'd left it, he exited the tent before Cassandra could come up with a decent reason to stop him.

She watched him go, eyes suspicious slants of dark brown that finally turned themselves back toward Lavellan in silent question. He shook his head and wiped at his nose with an edge of the blanket he pulled more firmly about himself.

"Apologies for...interrupting." Cassandra bit off, sardonically. She'd shared her doubts of Dorian's intentions and fit within the Inquisition already.

"You weren't!" Lavellan rushed too quickly to correct her, he realized, as he saw her expression flood with the confirmation of her suspicions before she mastered it back into its usual sullen mask of no nonsense business.

"It's... No matter." She assured him, in that awkward, brusque way of hers. "I wished to discuss tomorrow's assault of the keep."

She settled beside him on the cot. As they spoke a lieutenant, ostensibly sent by Dorian, entered a few minutes later with soup for Lavellan, still steaming and with a heel of bread soaking at its edge. He ate ravenously as they talked, discussing strategy and what little information they had on what to expect once past the barred doors of the keep. Cassandra's aggressive, dry conversation was welcome, though Lavellan's mind kept betraying his efforts to focus, straying back again and again to the sensation of smooth knuckles brushing against the fine hair of his lower stomach, the tormenting delight in dark eyes that crinkled at their outer edges in a way he'd never been close enough to notice before, the burr and accent of a voice so close to his ear he could feel the buffet of consonants in warm puffs of breath.

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, absently holding his empty bowl, staring off into the middle distance, entranced, until Cassandra cleared her throat. He glanced up to find she'd risen and was reaching to take his bowl from him. More embarrassingly, he noticed, she'd picked up the strewn bits of his armor and set them aside neatly, as well as hung his mail and tunic up along the tent poles to air out and dry. He let Cassandra take the bowl from his fingers, offering her a grateful, if slightly bashful smile in gratitude. She returned it, tightly and fleetingly, before hesitating in front of him. Lavellan groaned internally as he watched her choose her words carefully.

"He is...Tevinter." She said, quietly, fixing him with a look of remarkably friendly concern. "Be cautious."

Lavellan returned her gaze, carefully poker faced, until she turned with a huffed sigh and made her way out, mumbling a good evening to him as the tent flap swung shut.

He collapsed sideways upon the cot with a long exhalation, exhausted, sleep pulling at him with insistent hands now that his belly was full, muscles were finally unwound from the constant tension of shivering, and his brain was overflowing with far too many things Dorian in nature.

Keeping a careful eye on the tent entrance, he unlaced the stays of pants, toed off boots, and wriggled out of the remains of his clothes before re wrapping himself in the blanket and huddling up in the cot.

Tired eyes kept watching the tent entrance, burning with denied sleep each time he blinked. Would Dorian return? Was Cassie actively keeping him away or had he found somewhere else, less problematic to spend the night? If he came back then what? How awkward would the conversation or lack thereof be? Would he return to his flirtations or... His mind wandered, grabbing hold of that train of thought as eyes drifted shut: Dorian, coming silent and smiling back into the tent, pulling blanket aside to climb in behind him, one arm curling around him, drawing him back against a chest twice as broad as his own, hand sliding down his stomach, down between his thighs to cup and grasp, to rub with slow friction as Lavellan arched and writhed for a release he desperately needed. Warm mouth on his shoulder, his neck, his ear. The strange woody-spice scent of skin warmed against his own, the promising push of Dorian's own hard arousal fitted against the cleft of his backside...

Lavellan moaned in his sleep, a sudden and hungry noise that, had he been awake, would have mortified him. Thankfully, wrapped in the arms of slumber, he was removed from embarrassment, and saved the glance that Dorian, who had returned to the tent a scant few seconds earlier, cast him over one shoulder as he stood by the opposite cot, readying himself for sleep. He arched a dark brow at the fitful bundle of blankets across the way making all manner of softly obscene noises now. Hesitating a moment, he wandered over as curiosity won out, to gaze down at the unconscious Inquisitor.

One hand flexed, curling fingers thoughtfully before reaching down to pull the edge of the blanket up further over a bared shoulder, tucking it gently beneath Lavellan's chin, fingertips rising to stroke aside the fall of fine, silk soft hair from the elf's fever-flushed forehead.

The Tevinter may have been out one bet he'd made but oddly enough he went to sleep in his own cot that evening feeling as if he'd won a wager he hadn't even realized he'd put money on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments. Are. Writer. Crack.  
> Leave me a bump.  
> What did you like? What did you hate? What do you want more of? Speak to me!


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